Through The Eyes of John Watson
by FangirlWithFandoms
Summary: A little look into the mind of John Watson. A story of what John sees, thinks, imagines, and understands. John likes answering questions, but he doesn't want to answer a simple one. Complex, confusing, and deep. AU.


**So this is a small little oneshot. It is kind of depressing. Sorry about that... Well here goes nothing. Thanks to my friend, Sam, for being that girl who read this fic personally, and included her little comments. This one is for you!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. BBC does.**

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**THROUGH THE EYES OF JOHN WATSON**

John likes to think that he is a good observer. He can tell by a man's injury if they can walk or handicapped. He can tell by looking into someone's eyes that he/she hasn't been taking their meds regularly. Yes, John is quite a good observer. Quite good, but not the best.

John Watson meets his so called match in Sherlock Holmes. A man recommended to him for a flat mate.

At first, John doesn't think the man as someone with great "powers." Sherlock looked as if he was a normal bloke. He was nothing special. He didn't seem to be. That was what John thought, and boy was he wrong.

The more time John spent with the man, he noticed that he was a genius. Not even a genius. Something greater, something that was impossible. After sometime, John realizes that impossible isn't really the best description. More of improbable, maybe that.

John thus concluded, at the time, that he was a good observer, but Sherlock was probably - even, maybe - the best.

After a few months, John learns to see things like he never saw before. He begins to understand problems, and he even starts to answer the questions that haven't been seen. John starts to see like Sherlock, but he will never be Sherlock.

And it's not like he wants to place himself into the position of Sherlock. He just wants to be by his side, nothing more. He wants to solve mysteries with Sherlock; he wants to question the questions.

He basically learns along the way. It's always like that when he's with Sherlock. He always learns so he can catch up. Sometimes, he strains his eyes. He just wants to know the answers that Sherlock can see.

John never truly understood the basics. He would always question even the simplest of things. How was life created? Why am I here? How am I here? There was always one question that pops into his brain, though. One that never made sense to him. He tried saying it out loud, but it gave him no peace. The question he never knew he was asking.

Time passed, and John got used to his observations, no matter how crazy they seemed. Sherlock, well he was Sherlock. He never really changed. Always bored. Always yearning for something. John didn't know what that something was. He never tried asking, either. He knew Sherlock would blow it off.

Then something happens. Something so big it cannot be blown off just like that. Something monumental and destructive. This something would change their lives. This something would make it as if the solutions morphed back into questions. This something was called human reality.

Reality is harsh. John once said that he would rather imagine. Imagination is practically an escape route to a fake heaven, but once you tear down the walls it becomes your own personal hell. The idea of imagination is made up itself. Imagination is a product of itself. That is why reality seems so harsh. John used to see the reality, especially during the times of war. He, somehow, ended up fading back into the fake heaven.

So when the results came back in, all John could do was watch as Sherlock became an inner imagination. John's eyes deceived him into thinking that Sherlock was fine. Sherlock was normal, or at least, that is what John's mind came to think.

Then the questions came back. The annoying questions John shoved into the black pits of his mind. He clearly did not want to answer them, but they didn't stop. They never really stopped at all.

Then the one question John couldn't answer released itself from John's fake heaven. This question was shoved back the farthest for a reason. This question, if given the answer, would have the power to tear down John's imagination.

_Why am I STILL here?_

When the question was first asked, John answered it so simply. His answers were pretty much the epitome of 5th grade answers: I'm not dead, I'm breathing, I like London.

Then his mind processed the question. Here is not just a general idea. Here includes emotional aspects, and even personal ones. So, of course, the question was deeper than what it was put out to be.

_Why am I still here? Here, risking my life? With Sherlock as a flat mate?_

John likes observing. He likes seeing the beauty in things, but beauty doesn't mean its true. Beauty is what our minds tell us. Beauty is an imagination. Beauty is the lie hidden in the truth. Beauty, for John, is not seeing the truth.

John, also, likes seeing the questions in answers. He likes solving the lies. He likes imagining the reality, that he has made for himself.

So when John finally answered his question, he looked up to the stars and smiled. Beauty is lovely. Love is beautiful, and that means that love may seem harsh because it is.

Yes, he liked seeing things. He liked observing. He liked answering. He loved imagining.

He looked at Sherlock, and smiled as he saw the man that caused all the conflicts in his eyes. John Watson liked to see the world as he saw it. Blissfully false.

So as he lay on the grass beside Sherlock, who was closing his eyes, he looked up at the stars above once more. He felt his eyes close with no effort, and sighed.

_I like it here._

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**I cannot even begin to explain what I just wrote. It's night time, and I am very sleepy. So points for those who can get the idea of this story.**


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